


merry christmas baby

by oonaseckar



Series: The Sapphic Subterfuge [1]
Category: The Big Bang Theory (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fisting, Gen, Infidelity, Vaginal Fisting, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Season Three.  Episodically related to if nobody says anything it's not even happening.</p><p>Penny and Leslie have a lovely Christmas.  Not really.  Leslie may be up to no good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you're no good, you're no good, you're no good

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any claim in any respect regarding the TV show Big Bang Theory or any aspect or character thereof.
> 
> I'm posting Christmas fic now, I'm planning on the Valentine's stuff round about Guy Fawkes'.

**Merry Christmas Baby**

_'Might have had, one or two_  
Silly girls, wasn't nothing on you...'  
 **Ghost-face Killah, 'Back Like That'.**

 

'Put your titties away, lovey. You could have someone's eye out. And you're distracting me.' Leslie's voice is a perfect monotone, as she examines the board she's only recently set up in Penny's – their – Penny's – apartment. Penny's apartment, she decides, with the fragment of her brain still available to ponder such frippery. Still Penny's. Not quite theirs, yet. She's holding off. Holding out.

After all you never know who's going to come along. Famke could answer her letters, or her FB friend request. You don't _know_.

Penny is slowly grinding and winding her way up to a festive girl's night out. Her brows are fixed – after the horror of having Amy point out their hairy Neathderthal state. Amy! Dammit, move in with a girlfriend and just let _everything slide..._ She's turning up the music a notch every eight minutes or so, putting on another layer of mascara, working her way from starkers to starkers and scented to one item of clothing, two, two and a half... At this point, she's skirted, semi-heeled (where did her other shoe go?), wineglass in hand and glitter on her nips. It seemed _hilarious_ at the time. (Four minutes ago.)

'Sure you're not going with us?' She staggers over wonkily and rests her chin on Leslie's shoulder, staring at the board too. The crazy figures and symbols and dots and slashes dance in front of her only very slightly squiffy eyes. She's pretty sure Leslie's sneaked some Chinese in there just to mess with her.

'Too much to do. Deadlines. Journal submission edits. Scathing ripostes under socky IDs to every online social media account Sheldon Cooper possesses.'

Penny swivels her head sideways, squints into the only Leslie-eye she can locate. Her hands skate, loose and warm and friendly, over a bony rib-cage, to find Leslie's own vested titties. 'Sweetie, that does not count as refraining from distracting me,' Leslie says patiently. It says a lot, that her tone is gentle, even warm. It doesn't prevent Penny from flipping her upper garment up above her nips to take a better look.

'Jeez, you lost more weight? It's not like there's ever much up there, but all you've got _left_ is nipples. Are you sure you're not anorexic?'

Leslie still doesn't smack her, or lacerate her with her tongue. That was last night. 'Too busy to eat, lately. If you make good on your Christmas cooking promises, I'll be making up for it for the next week. Anyhow, averaged out, your boobies render both of us a comfortable B-cup.' She reaches back and squeezes companionably, and Penny gives a dutiful squeal before wandering off in search of matched footwear.

When Bernadette calls up through the intercom, hollering and hooting like someone with way too much Christmas spirit, ninety-eight per cent proof, Penny's about done. 'I look okay?' she asks, flipping at golden curls and tugging at her cleavage.

Leslie looks up from a proof that, while significant, is not graceful or lovely. Not like Pen. She stills and smiles, steps over and pats Pen's hip. Her hip becomes her ass, but hey the girl's used to it. 'You're a vision. Make sure Amy watches your drinks. Don't bring home any interesting new viruses. Or mammals. Remember who you belong to.'

'Who I belong to, _rawr_ ,' Penny grins, clawing like a half-grown kitten, lithe, soft, but the killer intent right there. A kiss is still a sweet surprise between them: _I can has this?_ Penny mostly thinks, watchful for the moment the wilder thing'll be up and off. There's never not a nip or a pinch: Leslie's all teeth and claws and tight little lips. But Penny knows there's softness somewhere inside... So she keeps looking.

Leslie watches from upstairs as she runs out, finally ready, Barbie made real and sweet enough to make you sick. It's not just Amy and Bernadette: there's half the Cheesecake Factory crowd, ex-girlfriends of ex-boyfriends, a couple of her hick Nebraska pals in town. Penny's going to roll home tonight, sodden and festive and strewn with tinsel. Leslie can see it, and only hopes she keeps her phone handy and has condoms in her purse.

Leslie throws down her dry-wipe pen, goes to throw herself on the bed, bounces. She takes out her own phone and dials. 'Hey. How about that paper we were talking about? I have the original reference. Want to come over?' There's a pause. 'No. She's gone.'


	2. baby you're no good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that first chapter certainly ended suspiciously. It did rather look as if Leslie was up to no good, behind poor sweet Penny's back. But no. Too obvious, and surely Leslie wouldn't do that, anyway, would she? Would she?
> 
> Yeah. Yeah, she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, besides the tags: BBT infidelity following. Grinching it up for Christmas!
> 
> Happy ending eventually. Whether Leslie deserves it or not.

“Chiquitita, are we grading on a curve, or what?” The languid voice has an accent that's local to Puerto Rico, not SoCal, as a long, tan, beautifully manicured hand folds and investigates Leslie's sweat-dampened corkscrew curls, as Leslie's tongue tickles her companion's navel. She's slapped away lazily, and then her head tugged side to side, one hand with a good grip on her hair, either side of her head.

Considering this is Leslie Winkle we're talking about, the complaint volume, both quantity and audio, is remarkably low. A little light grizzling is all that it amounts to, and then a tug out of this casual bondage that must take a few strands out by the roots. It's Leslie, and there's not a murmur or a squeak of protest out of her. Just a tear welling fatly in the corner of her eye, that rolls down a thin flushed cheek to fall on pretty unnamed lady's collarbone.

Everybody's nuddy here, can we establish that? Yeah. Nude Twister, maybe, or a little amateur fly-fishing that necessitated abandoning overalls and waders. 

And free at last, Leslie takes advantage of it, scrabbled up into a squatting postion, perched over her temporary conquest with her scrawny little chicken-legs splayed out over smooth depilated tan thighs. She's upright, scanty, narrow-shouldered and barely-boobed, watching, watchful. Her cheeks are so apple-red she looks like a little Dutch doll, a Russian matryoshka with the pinny and sarafan discarded, to run free and starkers in the blood-stained snow of the steppe. 

Her spectacles are missing, and someone's been chewing and scratching at various bits of her anatomy. It looks like she's been in a battle, and you could say that she has. She closes her eyes and breathes heavy, mops sweat off her brow as she says, “However you like, just state your parameters and marking criteria. How can I improve if I don't get a performance appraisal on a regular basis?”

Pretty lady is amused by that, and pretty tan-lined hills and valleys shake beneath Leslie, as that mirth travels through them. “Oh darling. Everything a competition and a striving for excellence, for you, isn't it? It would be easier if you had a pre-prepared marking sheet with all categories, so I could just run through ticking off boxes in red ink. What do you think they should be? Kissing, groping, fingers, sucking, muff-diving, fisting, strap-on, playing with toys, playing with toys in the lab, dirty talk, scientific dirty talk, scientific dirty talk with accurate and timely use of Latin anatomical terms, costumes, costumes with white lab coat, costumes with –”

Fingers silence her, not gently and suggestively stroked over full rosy lips, but shoved any old how into her wet maw, between pretty white teeth that are sharp. It's a bold move, with a new lover who seems to have little in the way of sentiment, remorse or hesitations. But Leslie is accustomed to making bold moves without looking back or regretting.

It's allowed, anyway. She doesn't lose any fingers. This time. So she leans over her conquest... who has four, five, six inches on her, ten or twelve pounds, all of it muscle, could fold her up and put her in the trash-can, wear it as hat. But allows this, and looks up with bright amused brown eyes as Leslie leans over her. “We haven't done half of that,” Leslie points out, and there's a thoughtful squint between her brows. “So maybe a temporary holding mark. While I get to work on it,” she adds, and reaches onto the bedside cabinet for a tube of lube. She's clearly contemplating risking her digits again, this time to the strange growler in her bed and its vagina dentata. It's as she's greasing up her hand, wrist, forearm, with special attention paid to the index finger and middle finger, that this pretty one grabs at her wrist – the one that's not slippery with Johnson & Johnson product – and stops her.

“So you want a median temporary grade while you work on the lacuna in your sexual resume, darling?” she asks, pushed up on well-moisturized elbows, impressive unassisted boobs perky. Penny's boobs aren't quite what they were three years back, Leslie thinks, and deletes the thought like an extraneous line in a scientific abstract. She doesn't do guilt. It isn't functional. Penny's out cavorting and having a merry little Christmas. There's nothing here to hurt her, 'cause she'll never know. 

_Penny getting hurt._ Leslie's scrawny little bod flinches all over, clear glop dripping from her well-prepped arm. She wipes her mind clean. Trash data must be discarded. And leans to bite at a smooth preposterously perfect tit, tan, over a pretty near-heart-shaped birthmark, just avoiding an aggressively pointed nipple. It's seen more sun than bikini tops. 

“I want an A+ that you give me while you're making the neighbours come down and bang on the _door_ 'cause you're too loud,” she corrects. And wets her fingers further in a better way, down where the Puerto Rican has, surprise surprise, a Brazilian.

She's wrist deep and getting faster and less cautious, three minutes later. But she shouldn't be. Nothing to do with even her narrow hands and skinny wrists still being a lot for a carefully topiarized quim to take, either. It's just that their attention's distracted, hers and the pretty lady's both.

Not a good idea, that. Leslie's testing the limits for girth as well as depth, flexing out from where she has her hand clamped in on itself to occupy the narrowest space possible. That only gets her a pleasant taunt from the owner, who has her long, muscular, Amazonian legs clamping Leslie in place – one over her shoulder, one around her waist – and is holding Leslie's other hand tight enough to be more threatening than sweetly reassuring. “That all you got, little nerd?” she's asking softly, and Leslie's gonna rise to the challenge, there's no challenge made or thought of that Leslie doesn't like the look of and jump to rise to – 

Pretty lady's breathing faster and sweating a mild bit, for all her affectation of indifference, and Leslie's leaning in to it, putting her back and what muscle she's trained into it. And it's got to be absorbing enough that they fail to notice. 

It's Sheldon's swift rat-a-tat at the bedroom door, that Leslie hears. But it ain't Sheldon delivering it, and since when does he knock for entry to the bedroom, anyway? (Perish the thought.) 

Leslie doesn't even know how long it's been going on when she turns to look. Pretty lady, meanwhile, has her face scrunched up – ah, so Leslie's not quite as inept as her jibes and defiance suggest! - and her eyes clenched, head thrown back and pretty reddish hair splayed out wild. And Leslie sunk in past the wrist, clamped in by tan thighs like she's Bond and Xenia Onatopp's trying a new variant on her favourite move.

Oh, it's not the move and the pose to be caught wet-handed in, by your steady everyday girlfriend. Penny's leaning against the door-frame, and it looks like she's had a good night, probably. Her hair's a little mussed, and her eyeliner's smudged and her lip-gloss too. One of the heels of her sandals is damaged, and altogether she's a shambles and a wreckage of the brightly attractive blonde sweetie whose exterior she normally presents. 

There's also no sign of her usual friendly, perky, benign demeanour. This is more Penny as tensely writhing hyena, examining the prey and how many leaps and bounds and savage clamps of the jaws it will take to destroy it. 

Leslie's the prey. Penny isn't even acknowledging the presence of a third party in the bedroom with so much as a glance, right now. 

“I'm thinking of taking up amateur gynaecology, did I tell you?” This is what Leslie opens with. She has never felt so dumb – she has never felt dumb, up until this moment – in her fucking life. And that's even before Penny reacts. That lovely face goes slack a moment – Leslie thinks she's stunned by the sheer cretinous awfulness of Leslie's poker-faced brass-necked gambit, every bit as much as Leslie – before Penny's eyes re-harden. And she winds her neck around, cricks it. And cracks her knuckles.

Penny, cracking her knuckles. It feels like there's a high-pitched shrill siren of menace carolling through the air, is Leslie just imagining it? 

“Good thing I didn't go out with a pistol in my pocketbook,” is what Penny says. Her voice isn't steady enough to be sober, but she enunciates very carefully. “Get your arm out of your whore – sweetie – and get her out of here. So that I can say the things I have to say to you.”

Yeah, that sounds like a better idea to Leslie, right about now. And evidently to her lovely feminine companion for the evening, too. Because pretty lady is shuffling backwards as swift and efficient as Leslie's removing her own knuckles and digits from her lithe and rounded person, even if she does it with a lot more languid, economical grace than Leslie. And also a face that expresses almost admirable boredom and sang-froid, that might be designed to come across as less deliberately provocative if she knew Penny as well as Leslie knows Penny, by now.

Although even that's perhaps not as well as she thought she knew Penny.

Still it's as great as anything can be, right now, that this chickie is into her frillies, dress on, heels on and jacket slung around her shoulders about as quick as if she was a witch who only had to wriggle her nose. “See you around the department, darling,” she says with pointed calm, to Leslie. And without a glance in Penny's direction, she's tip-tapping on monstrously delicate expensive sandals, outta there. Right past Penny in the doorway, Penny who's eyeballing her every step.

But stands still as a wolf lurking in the trees, watching Bambi get bold and get reckless. Then just as pretty lady rounds the obstacle of Penny, just as if Pen was Scylla or Charybdis, a geographical inanimate hazard to be rounded and evaded... Penny takes one stamp forward, violently, loud. Like she's gonna crush her rival between her own thighs, any minute. This junior rodeo is _on_ , halfway done, and the overwhelming champion is pretty much a formality right here. 

Credit to her, pretty lady wasn't dumb to start with – only insolent. And she gets a lot smarter real quick. In fact she scurries outta there like a squirrel in the woods, who hears the step of the hunter who's heard that squirrel stew can be real good. Penny turns and watches her go, slumping a little against the door frame. And gives one additional warning stamp for good measure – plenty loud on the cheap laminate flooring of the apartment, even in her high heels. 

The door of the apartment bangs closed, and now it's just the two of them. Cosy. 

Leslie feels a little chilly, and it's not only because of her girlfriend's arctic gaze. As unobtrusively as she can manage it, she twitches the silky dressing-gown – Penny's, might cause trouble in itself, but it's nearest – that's under the pillow, out and around her shoulders. For a micro-second, she contemplates an apology, maybe with a little grovelling thrown in.

It's not that her principles actively militate against the idea. But she hasn't had much practice. (She hasn't had any practice.) And just like Penny, she's a terrible actress.

But Penny just stands there and watches her, arms folded, so she has to try something. “Nice work catching me out,” is what she goes for, and she knows it's a terrible idea as the words trip out of her mouth. She knows it, and she's a certified fucking genius, what is going on here? She's better than this. She's better at getting her own way than this, if nothing else. How many times has she bested Sheldon Cooper, alleged genius of this parish? 

A little toss of the head there, from her girl. It's still pretty, a lively vixenish bit of high-temper from her high-bred mare. Even with her mane damped down with the sweat and booze and insufficiently-doughty hairspray of her wild night, Okies hick chicks and microbiologists and cheesecake waitresses rockin' the town. “Not as if it was difficult,” Penny says. “Your second braincell has identity with a real number times _i_.”

And she waits, lets the beat drop, 'cause today Leslie is... sloooow. “It's _imaginary_ ,” Penny snaps.

What the fuck has she been picking up, hanging out with Caltech freaks 'n' geeks? Where is Leslie's sweet simple Nebraska funtime waitress? Gone.

There's no way Leslie can process this. She can feel she's not firing on all cylinders, but she tries anyway. “How come you're back so early anyhow?” she asks slowly, pulling the dressing-gown tie into a lax knot to save what modesty she's got left. Nude isn't a good way to hold up your side of a volcanic eruption.

And Penny comes a little way further into the room, closer to Leslie – not good, usually good, but not good right now. She's wobbling a little bit on gold-strapped sandals, but Leslie ain't fooled. She's seen Penny take out a sleazy ass-squeezing Cheesecake Factory customer with a tray in one hand and a menu in the other, nothing but work-shoe flatties and her own athletic skills from years of cheer-leading to work with.

Penny's a shark. An angel, yes, but also a shark. Whatever's running through her veins right now wouldn't be enough to slow her down, if she felt like a non-verbal expression of her feelings about the events of this night. Yep, her fists are clenching, relaxing, clenching, relaxing... But her voice is sweet, almost little girl, almost the voice that Wyatt gets down the phone-line, Daddy's little angel, Slugger post-menarche, post-boobs, pleading for a little attention, a little affection and approval.

“What, you think I'm here by accident, sweetie?” she asks. Smiling, she's smiling, and sharks smile too. “You think I was just done having Yuletide fun with the girls, and I staggered home to my honey to cuddle up for a bedtime story about string theory and the Supreme Fascist? 

Now she's closer and now she's on the bed, settling her glitter-lurexed ass down and capturing one of Leslie's hands, squeezing it. And if Leslie was smart, was actually smart, she'd probably just have followed her honey-on-the-side outta here, out onto the streets, banged on a friend's door for a bed for the night, slept in a bus shelter. Anything would have been wiser than this. 

“I'm thinking maybe not,” she says warily, and Penny pinches her cheek. She pinches hard. 

“Smart girl. My smart girl,” she says, breathing rum fumes over Leslie. “Pity you don't understand that I'm smart too.”

“I do, I do, you shouldn't think –“ And of course, Leslie rushes to correct that misapprehension, to put right what damage she can here tonight at least. Penny _is_ smart, she knows that perfectly well. Well, street-smart, anyhow. She opens her mouth to say so. And shuts it again. Penny's looking at her narrowly, very narrowly indeed for one so flushed and shiny of face. 

“Yeah, be careful what you say,” Penny advises. She pats Leslie's hand where she's still got it in an inescapable grip. “Like you should've been more careful about what you were doing. Couple of weeks, it's been, right? At least. Sneaking around, shagging around, extra affectionate, all pleased with yourself. Singing while you write gibberish on your _fucking board._

That's... actually pretty accurate, as far as time-frame goes. And Leslie feels her mouth fall open. Because it opens up all kinds of questions, although one in particular. Their eyes are glued on each other, as she says slowly, “Tonight? You knew tonight. Before you went out with Bernadette and Amy and all the rest of them... you knew?” 

And Leslie thinks that she really has to cease and quit with the dumbass questions, or she'll never be able to look herself in the mirror in the morning. (Forget fucking around: the memory of the clueless tripped-up expression she has to be exhibiting is what's really going to haunt her dreams from now on. If Sheldon could see her now, he wouldn't be the one resembling a Texas doorknob around here.)

Too late for this one, though, too late now. A smile curls over Penny's face that's sly, and zazzy as any of Sheldon's cats. When she leans in to speak into Leslie's ear the mix of Miss Dior and rum-based cocktails is less dizzying than what she has to say. “Honey. Not only are you not as smart as you think you are, but also, let me tell you, you are _a terrible fucking actress_.”

That grip on Leslie's hand is tight enough to hurt, now, and she'd yank it away – cuz she's not a masochist, and even if she'd fucked the entirety of the contracted operatives of Models One, that doesn't mean she has to put up with this – but Penny suddenly throws it away from her like a candy-wrapper, and stands as quick. She gives a little shove to Leslie's shoulder that pulls her off balance as she goes, a tug to one corkscrew curl, and that's it. No cat-fight, no mean-faced resolution, from the Nebraska girl who used to shoot anything she wanted to eat or that went near her boyfriends.

Plenty vigorous and emphatic Penny is, standing, but she's also plenty affected by her altered state, and her ascent's too fast to be wise. Smart she is, maybe: but neither of them have been wise. But she stays upright, just about. It's a near thing for a moment, but then she steadies, heels wobbling, and she points at Penny. Her face is a lot calmer, like a Supreme court judge passing judgement.

“Terrible,” she repeats emphatically. “Fucking terrible. Cannot act to save your _life_. Transparent as anything I've drunk out of tonight. But that I could take, sweetie.” She bends over, hands on bare knees, to where she's on a level with Leslie. Talking to her like an adult, a nursery nurse helping out in a kindergarten, talking to one of the obstreperous three-year-old inmates. Her sweet face is consciously kind, understanding. Leslie could smack her for it. _Fuck this._ Some things are just uncalled for.

“Know what I can't take?” she asks, now. Blue-eyed sincerity tells Leslie this is serious: this isn't just point-scoring, last word in a break-up argument. Penny thinks she's actually being helpful, giving Leslie life-tips that will help her along the road of life in the future. Leslie's not terribly used to being the patronised one in any conversation. (Barring with Sheldon Cooper, but that's her and the rest of the research staff at CalTech, then.) Certainly not in conversation with Penny. (She hadn't twigged that Penny was on a high enough level of awareness to be, well, aware of it, before. Score one to Penny, then.) 

“I can't take – any more,” Penny says carefully, “you not understanding that I'm a _fucking fantastic actress_. Just 'cause I strike out on ninety percent of the TV commercials for coke and refined corn snacks and antacids I try out for, just because I lost out on on that last TV pilot to Tia Carrera, Christ's sake – all that means is that casting directors don't necessarily know a good thing when they see it. Or that it's a tits 'n' ass role and my tits 'n' ass aren't quite on par with Tia Carrera's tits 'n' ass. It doesn't mean I don't have _chops_ It doesn't mean I can't act my socks off, it doesn't mean I haven't honed my craft, it doesn't mean I'm not easily good enough to fool _you._ ”

And she straightens up, lets go Leslie's hand – Leslie pulls back sharp. She knows her face is squeezed tight, mutinous enough to make Captain Bligh order fifty lashes. Penny's not paying attention. Too busy drawing herself up, and wiping the schoolmarm sharpness off her face.

No, now her expression is back to the ditzy, sweet, dumbass Penny of six hours or so ago, back when she was hanging out here with Leslie, getting ready to go out, rushing around sweet and silly, ingenuously affectionate, Leslie's own Penny to be protected and cherished and sneaked around on.

Leslie would off anybody – temporarily – with a paintball grenade for Penny. She'd casually push 'em off a cliff with an innocent face and never think twice about it. She hasn't gone so far as to make the call on being _in love_ , not yet. Because, yech, feelings. But if she was going to make the call, then she loves Penny. She loves her more than she's managed to love anyone before, ever. ♥, indeed.

She's just not willing to modify her _modus operandi_ for her. She's sure as fuck not willing to be _less Leslie Winkle._

No matter anyhow. Here's the real Penny – or the Penny she's used to, anyhow. With a sweet-faced giggle, as she flounces out a simultaneously flat and dissipation-frizzed lock of golden hair, and sings out, “Sweetie, what's that on your board? I'm so silly, I lost a shoe, do you want wine, honey? Are you coming with us? Don't be lonely while I'm gone!” And from a sweet, daft wide-eyed look, that's wiped right off Penny's face. And she gets that impatient narrow-eyed look she's capable of sometimes. The one that doesn't seem like Penny at all. Or not her preferred version of Penny, anyway. It's surely some part of Penny, one that she hasn't had much dealings with up until this point.

“I can act my ass off,” Penny snaps, now. “And now you know it for sure. Dumbass. I don't want to sleep here tonight, I don't care what you do until I come back. Don't be here in the morning, though.”

Oh, it'd be a lot more dignified if the state she's in didn't militate again a dignified exit, if she didn't stumble as she turns on one spike heel, and stagger on the rug and nearly, very nearly, go ass over tit and faceplant on the cheap laminate. Nearly, but she rescues herself before Leslie has the chance, though she leaps forward. Trembles and throws shapes that never formed a part of any cheerleading routine, but successfully jerks herself upright again.

And turns and glares at Leslie, daring her to say one word. And Leslie does, does dare to say something. (Not that there's usually much that stops her. She might regret it later, but if she's gotta say something right now...) Not that word, though. She sits flaccid and slumped between sheets that are hers and Penny's (and, Christ, she should have thought about that first, maybe). And says, “I love you. You know. It's true.”

This really isn't the best moment to say it for the first time, and it's not like she doesn't know that. She hasn't suddenly lost all of her marbles, only the odd one here and there perhaps. It's also true that it might come across as disingenuous... Well, it is disingenuous, that's the truth. How could it not be? As a bare fact it's accurate, she's not lying. But the timing, well, it's not so much a subtle bit of softening up, carefully timed to sweeten up her justifiably murderous sweetie. More a last-ditch and transparent attempt to throw her a sop, that might just take the edge off her temper, and her will to break something they've been carefully piecing together for months now.

Not that Leslie hasn't done her bit to contribute to the breakage. She'll put her hand up to that, much good it's going to do her. She doesn't really expect this offensive – attacking with kissy-kissy and huggles as the best defence, maybe – to do a damn bit of good. 

But it does a bit more than she'd hoped or expected, perhaps. Penny's face – screwed up with distaste and scepticism, as Leslie opens her mouth – softens a bit, at the words. Which is proof that Leslie is the very Evil Deceiver that Descartes liked to bang on about. Or that Penny is too smart to be credulous, but chooses to err on the side of blind optimism where Leslie's concerned. Certainly with her history of boyfriends of dubious merit, she ought to know better. That she chooses not to, is maybe a tribute to Leslie's charms, or the power of love. Or to the popular definition of insanity, the one that everyone knows. 

Either way, Penny's face gets a little gentler, or a bit more stupid. Whichever is more appropriate as an adjective for anyone who has an affection for Leslie Winkle. And she scrunches her face up in visible hesitation, but then takes one step closer to Leslie. Which is a good sign, right? As long as it's not getting closer for the purpose of giving her a hefty smack, it's good.

Anyway something in Penny's sweet fond face, and the eyeliner that's travelled way further around the landscape of her features than it was ever meant to, gives Leslie confidence. Over-confidence, maybe, 'cause what springs out of her mouth isn't rational, carefully considered and calculated to enhance her current position and score in the game. It's emotional and dumb and chock-full of bravado.

Well, it could be worse. If it was any of that tight-ass persnickety Star-Trek-Data-type list of attributes, then she'd be Sheldon fucking Cooper. Or Data, and that would be a whole other kind of _no._

“You know, I think you should really make some allowances anyway,” she says. And she's already up and crawling across the bed, closer, a lot happier than five minutes ago, anticipating embraces and reunions and maybe Penny will make her famous egg-nog – minus the egg, the nog, and pretty much anything that isn't rum? Kind of the reverse of Sheldon's virgin Cuba Libre. “I have some excuse. I mean, anyone would have done the same.”

And now, even now – even with the arrested expression on Penny's face, and the arresting of her forward motion, left wobbling on heels dug into the flooring – she doesn't shut her mouth and quit while she's ahead. No, she goes right ahead and says, “I mean, she's a model. No, scratch that, she's a super-model. Mega-model, maybe. You've got to have seen her, she's on this month's GQ cover with Sebastian Stan? And not only that.” Leslie's weedy little chest puffs up with pride. She can't help it, right? She _hit that_. She should get an award, or something, not disapprobation and a yelling-at by her – very sweet honey of a – girlfriend. “She's also an astrophysicist! Sheldon's department just recruited her – and boy is his nose going to be out of joint! It'll be a happy day for me when I get to see him react to that piece of news! The brief reign of Dennis Kim'll be nothing on it!”

And she hopefully, probably _will_ get to see Sheldon's reaction, to the induction into the department of his new nemesis. (Almost guaranteed, there. Pulchritude is no recompense for competition for title of the CalTech astrophysics department's reigning star, not in Sheldon Cooper's book.) 

Thing is, it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter what Sheldon's reaction is going to be, because she should have taken more note of Penny's. Cuz Penny's staggering now, all right, and it's not just whatever she's ingested this evening that's doing it. Hopping around on one leg will do that to a girl. Hopping around while dragging off a pretty gilt spike-heeled slightly damaged sandal, and throwing it at your catabout unfaithful girl-friend's face.

Leslie ducks. Her reflexes are honed from years of departmental paintball, and it's a good thing too. The sandal doesn't actually embed itself in the opposite wall, even though it's a bit inconsiderate and would have added greatly to the dramatic tension. 

The muffled thump as it falls on the other side of the bed coincides, though, with the slam of the door. It's followed, moments later, by the strict rat-a-tat, _Sheldon_ , rat-a-tat, _Sheldon_ , rat-a-tat, of Penny seeking ingress and a bed – a couch – for the night, across the hall.

That's that, then. Leslie has been quite right, all these years, avoiding all of that icky relationship nonsense. See where it gets her? Fucked up. Totally fucked up. 


	3. feelin' better, now that we're through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Heart-sick is a _kind_ of sick, Penny,”
> 
> Everybody's happier! it was a long time coming!
> 
> Waaaaaaaah....
> 
> Sheldon & Penny = ♥. And 'Soft Kitty Warm Kitty' heals all wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferrero Rocher reference. Whu', I dunno.
> 
> Biblical ref. ahoy: Job 5:7.

“Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur...” That careful, respectful rendition of a very special song, that's Sheldon. And though Sheldon will be forever and ever associated, in Penny's mind, with _Soft Kitty_ , there's still something wrong with this picture.

He's the one singing it, for a beginning. And although it's perfectly true that Penny has managed to get the odd rendition of this supreme comfort-tune for the soul out of him, here and there... It takes a lot. Amongst other criteria and circumstances, it generally takes a fair amount of emotional and moral blackmail, for a command performance by the master. 

Not now, though. Now, she hasn't even had to make a special request for the soft roll of bar after bar, the final miaowing that chimes likes bells, unendingly sweet. (God almighty, Sheldon has actually searched out an acceptable – to him – version of the song on his iTunes account, so that he can sing it to her in the round as accompaniment, player set up in his speaker stand. With this special gala charity evening, Monsieur Sheldon, he is really spoiling Penny...) 

She interrupts him anyway, because heartbreak or no, fiendish faithless hellbitch girlfriends or no, some verities are eternal and should be respected. “'Soft Kitty' is for when you're _sick_ , though, Sheldon.'”

And he breaks off just a moment, and can manage to make his gentle koala-smile reproving. “Heart-sick is a _kind_ of sick, Penny,” he says gravely, and he resumes the song. It's true. She doesn't argue further. 

If she's honest Penny would say that this level of care, compassion and concern – considering the source – is a little bit alarming. But she lets the final bars chime out, Sheldon's pleasant, disciplined and tuneful baritone coming to a husky halt with only the faintest wobble, as he mis-paces it against the line he's echoing just a fraction. (Not that he's ever likely to admit it.)

And from her comfortable spot on the sofa, she looks up at him. Many a time and oft, Penny has used that particular, beseeching, helpless look from the big baby blues she knows and owns and controls. But this time, it's not calculated, and she's not looking to extract a damn thing out of Sheldon, not favours or fondness or a ride home after getting ditched, a free pass for a traffic violation. It's for real. That look, it is just exactly how she's feeling.

Which is probably why, in broad daylight – eleven am on a Sunday morning, with _Doctor Who_ scheduled in the TV guide, but not yet playing on the darkened TV screen – she's getting away with this. With lying on the sofa, _Sheldon's spot_ commandeered as well as the free all-comers' cushion, couch-throw pulled over her and a million damp grizzled-into tissues surrounding her like confetti. Like the confetti that's never going to rain down on her, not now. Not in the Vegas wedding she'd been thinking maybe she and Leslie were going to dare each other into one of these fine days, once that backwards shrine to money and Mammon and marriage gets its act together, and its reified ass into gear. 

Song done – third rendition – Sheldon pauses, and pats her hand. “Penny, I have prepared you every hot beverage currently available, both in our cupboards and in every local emporium within a two kilometre radius. I have sung you Soft Kitty, I have brought box after box of tissues. And you have been accorded the greatest hospitality that any guest is ever honoured with in mine and Leonard's apartment.” And with that, he gives a meaning nod to The Spot. “And now, I must really insist upon a fuller account of what it is that ails you. I hasten to add that I will not be counting blubbering assertions that _'She – wha – wha – uh-uh-uh blub SHELDON'_ , nor any similar protestations and outbursts. Coherence and concision, Penny, are admirable attributes, as essential and productive in normal social intercourse as they are in the writing of a scientific abstract for a published peer-reviewed paper. And I'll thank you to bear that in mind, in your account of your troubles. Now, I am at your service in the resolution of this matter. Kindly proceed.”

And from his perch by her side, uncomfortably sidelined onto the edge of the sofa in deference to her sequestration of the territory that's by all rights, _droit de seigneur_ , and settlement of borders by recognized international bodies, _his_ , he gives her a look. _Right now_ , that look says. And also, _I may be taking minutes, and anything you say is liable to be used in evidence against you._

Leonard would be so much better at this, Penny thinks, and hiccups. But Leonard is currently away at an academic conference in Colorado. And in any case, Penny finds it isn't Leonard she really wants ministering to her in her hour of whingeing protest and despair. Sheldon's fussy, professorial, pedantic version of tough love – with the odd moment of musical softness thrown in – is actually preferable to her. Soothing, it's soothing. Well, it's familiar, and that approximates to soothing, right now.

He gets the edited version, because she's not honestly capable of a lot of detail right at the moment, even if he had the patience to listen to it. “She was my woman, Shellie,” Penny says mournfully. “And she done me wrong.”

At this, Sheldon gives his trademarked eye-roll. “This is Leslie Winkle we're talking about, Penny. What in the name of scalded bobcats were you expecting? And in any case, I'm aware of the basic facts of the case – two hours you've been here for, now, and even though blubbering and sentence fragments are all that you've managed to emit thus far, the fact that Leslie Winkle is the CalTech physics department's lush, trollop and _hormonal black-hole sucking in all comers_ , has been established, and has led me to the conclusion that she's been running around on you. Even if you banging on ourapartment door in the middle of the night wasn't enough of a clue. And frankly, it's no surprise. Woman is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward, Penny. Especially when she's dumb as a stump enough to get herself mixed up with the likes of Leslie Winkle.”

Penny has had her face crumpled up into yet another tissue, wiping at reddened eyes and curled as closely into a safe, defended, protected ball as she can manage, what with sturdy limbs and a long cheerleader's torso, in borrowed tartan pyjamas. But now she looks up at Sheldon. Her face has been vulnerable, open. (And damp and flushed and red-nosed, snotty. But leaving that aside.) Now, though, she gets a trace of that look in her eye that she'd been treating Ms Leslie Winkle to, two hours back. 

And, credit to him, Sheldon flinches. “You're not _helping_ , Sheldon,” Penny points out. But she's back to the pleading and weepy tone of a moment ago, and he can relax like any hunted creature, when the predator's having a weepy fit and needs hugs and ice-cream. 

Tentatively, Sheldon reaches out, and pats the hair that's seen better hours, these past twenty-four. It looks like a golden nest on her head, one abandoned by birds looking for something less low-rent and high-crime. “I want to help, Penny,” he says. “Or, at least,” he adds, because his Mom taught him to be truthful, on pain of an ass-whuppin' with extreme prejudice, “I am _obliged_ to be helpful, in cases of grumbling appendix, national disaster and possible psychotic break, according to the terms of our Friend and Neighbour agreement. I'm just pointing out that I'm already aware of the fundamental nature of the _issue at hand_ , here. And in my role as comforter and support in a time of trouble, it might do you more good to begin at the beginning, and tell me the whole damn story.” The resigned look on his face tells much of a close reading of the aforementioned Friend and Neighbour agreement, and of a man who looks his doom in the eye and greets it with a sigh.

The look on _Penny's_ face, though – that is a look of wonder. The wide and tear-stained eyes she bends upon Sheldon's face are touchingly amazed. “Oh, Sheldon,” she says. “Really? You really want to hear about the whole thing?”

“Penny,” Sheldon begins, “your question hangs upon a definition of the word _want_ that could launch us into a semantic swamp of such murky depths that President emeritus William Jefferson Clinton-Blythe III _himself_ might hesitate to opine–”

No, it's too late for Sheldon. He's doomed himself, all right. Penny's not listening, mostly because anything he says, any preconditions he attempts to make explicit and terms he struggles to hold her to, are going to be muffled by hair and pyjamas and couch-throw and, ick, human bodies and limbs, warmth and touch and feeling. She's thrown herself into his arms with all the gay abandon that Penny has in her soul. (And that's a whole heap.) 

And now she's sobbing into his neck, renewed tears when he'd been praying to heaven and his Mom that maybe the well had finally dried up. But even then it doesn't stop her talking, so he's really shit outta luck with the pig the king of the sty – as Daddy always used to put it, bottle up-ended as he steered them into another ditch – whichever darn way you look at it. Or holding onto the runaway steer by the horns and putting his trust in Jesus, as his Mom would undoubtedly prefer to express it. 

“There there,” Sheldon says gamely, though, ever the manly support to the little woman. If it can't be helped. “There there, Penny. It'll be all right. We'll make it so. Women are nothing but trouble and galumphing round in cabaret sequins, anyhow.” And he pats her heaving back, and does not attempt to withdraw from the embrace. Because she re-drew a few of the clauses in the Agreement prior to signing, dammit, and Penny is _wasted_ as a pharmaceutical rep. One Ivy League law school is missing a star alumnus, but for a fickle twist of fate. “You're better off without the likes of Leslie Winkle.”

That only brings on another heaving onslaught of sloppy tears, a salty flood. “I don't _want_ to be better off without her, Sheldon. I want _her._ ”

Sheldon raises his eyebrows in comical disgust behind her back, because, really? Well, there's no accounting for folks, and beetles fancy other beetles, MeeMaw says. But he knows his duty. This comes under Section 3.4 'Appropriate conduct when your friend and neighbour is clearly having a psychotic break', sub-clause e) iv) 'Supporting your friend and neighbour in a course of conduct liable to lead to tears before bedtime'. “Very well, then , Penny,” he resolves, and represses a sneeze as her ever-wilder hair tries to stray up his protesting nose. “If that's what you want, then we'll get her for you. Leslie Winkle does not know the Texas-tooled Mack truck that's about to hit her.”

Penny quiets a moment in his arms, and sniffs a bit. Sheldon passes her a fresh handkerchief, wincing. Her voice is quieter still, and only hitching a little bit with gasps, when she asks, “Really?”

Sheldon's been a hero many times, it's nothing new to him. Taking a pioneer route through time and space, leading armies of pixelated elves and Orcs into battle against insurmountable odds, that time when he bust the record for longest queuer for Comicon tickets, and when he took the paintball team to victory against the Geology department, landing Barry Kripke in hospital with the unfortunate nostril/acrylic paint interface, the whole collapsed lung deal that he _still_ hasn't ceased to whine about. But never a hero to _just one girl_ , looking at him like he's Daniel Craig crossed with Harry Potter, and might whip out the wand and twitch his adorably up-turned nose and _bewitch_ Leslie Winkle into obedient slavish adoration, hog-tied and docile. 

Anyway, he's bound by that darned agreement.

“I promise, Penny,” he says.

xxx

Leslie's fine. She's _fine_. She's so fucking fine, actually, that there isn't even anything to be fine _about_. Two weeks and she's back in the lab, now the winter vac is over and thankfully done with, two weeks of ice. And that's not about the anatomically-correct snowmen that Raj and Howard have built out in the quad, about as mature as the first-year undergrads that Howard's teaching, now he's finally been awarded the congratulatory first for his doctorate. (Man, that's gonna stick in Sheldon Cooper's craw. She went so far as to congratulate Howie herself in person – on his snowmen, too – at the ceremony. And squeeze cute little blondie's ass, too, the missus. Cuz Bernadette think's it's _hilarious_ how excited Howie gets, at any hint of Sapphic action, and they can leave him hanging on the edge of that cliff for _months_ , now.)

She's _so_ fine, actually, that she slices the heads off of Raj and Howard's snowmen with a portable laser gun prototype, that's restricted to the lab, and that she's been specifically forbidden, by the Dean of the faculty, from taking out in public. Again. And that's even considering she's in a (relatively) good mood with Howard, really pretty benevolent.

Far as she's benevolent about _anything_ , right now, because – two weeks of _ice_ , dudie. Penny still isn't speaking to her, not responding to her texts, her instant messaging, her emails, letters, phonecalls, carrier-pigeon missives, barbershop quartets singing up to her window...

Okay. Leslie hasn't gone that far. But she _has_ lowered her dignity sufficiently to make several attempts to thaw the ice, to get her sweetie to see sense and listen to reason.

But rationality is evidently not Penny's _forte_. Even if she _is_ still whupping Leonard's ass at chess on a bi-monthly basis, every time he thinks he's got the hang of her approach and opening moves and can finally, _finally_ get one over on her.

(He can't. He never will. Considering Penny's reasoning, analytical powers and critical thinking skills, she oughta be a tenured professor in the department by now. Except the nerds would never recover: imagine Penny teaching Quantitative Methods 101. The drool left on the lecture room floors after a stern admonition about _statistical rigour_ from Penny? The janitors would strike for danger money and re-unionization.)

Aaaand she's still thinking about Penny, so she thinks about food instead, and heats up a vacuum-sealed pack of Japanese pickles with the laser gun set to a setting that'll only leave 'em mildly contaminated with food-grade plastics, sticks soba noodles in a retort jar over a bunsen burner and leans against the lab table, sulking. Maybe sulking, a little bit. 

Back to the lab door, because no-one's going to have at her with a paint-gun or take a laser to the back of her head, not in here. Well, probably not. With Barry Kripke, all bets are off much of the time, that nutjob. And she settles down and chews her noodles meditatively, standing up. Because she's got important work that's being delayed by stupid human biological requirements and caloric necessity, and sitting down is too much trouble, still less going to the canteen. And she hardly tastes food these past two weeks and it's almost too much trouble to eat and _fuck_ it really. 

“Leslie Winkle, my arch-nemesis. What a pleasure to find you here.”

Seven merry bells of hell, and _of course_ if she's going to have unwanted company, at a point where she can hardly even tolerate her own, then of course, of course it's going to be Sheldon Cooper. Who is still less welcome in Leslie's private territory than he would have been a year or two ago: seeing as he's all buddy with _Penny_ now – or up to a point, in a way – and who could have seen _that_ coming? 

On the other hand, he's _all buddy with Penny now._ So it might pay to make nice.

Leslie turns around. “I'm still in pole position to win the all-time arch-nemesis award? Sheldon, I'm touched. I thought you were all about Wil Wheaton there for a while. Or was there some competition from Barry Kripke, even, at one point?” She's talking through a mouthful of noodles, 'cause she didn't have the laser on a high enough setting, and also, fuck it, it's Sheldon. Most normal everyday courtesies are suspended when interacting with Sheldon, since he wouldn't recognise them unless they were detailed in an Arch-Nemesis Handbook with appropriate annotations and end-notes, in any case. 

It's also Leslie Winkle, and this is about as close to playing nice as Leslie gets.

Sheldon shrugs, arms folded where he's framed in the doorway. “Actually you don't even qualify top five any more, Leslie: revisiting old times that way was just a courtesy and formal greeting. Also I think my mom would approve it as a mode of address to a – lady – more than any of the descriptions I've been hearing of you from Penny for two weeks now.”

Hell, it hurts more than it should. Leslie's shields are down, way down. And she's always been so careful to let Penny in just so far and no further, just enough for a little warmth, and not far enough to get hurt any time, any way. At least Sheldon isn't using any of Penny's pejoratives, at least she doesn't know, she's probably better off not knowing, almost certainly –

“I think 'hoe-bag sleazy lab-bunny Hobbit' was the least offensive,” Sheldon says consideringly, head perked to one side like it's taking a lot of thinking about, like it's weighing his head down. Like there are a lot of other possible alternatives.

So Leslie slams her noodles down on the table, because _who needs it_ , and squares off with her hands on her hips, rumpling up her lab-coat, facing this _Texas ranger of the starry skies_ , and their unplumbed depths, origins and limits. “Okay, Sheldon, let's quit with the line-dancing around, you blunt-edged Texas tool. What's this about, what are you here for, what do you want?” Maybe she's breathing a little fast. Maybe she's red in the face, suddenly. Maybe she's looking at the laser gun still on the lab-table and thinking hell, the lab accident book is _practically bare_ so far this semester. She could easy get away with calling it self-defence, and explaining away the first fatality in the department's history with Sheldon's having flipped and lashed out at her because the asbestos mats weren't set out at right angles. It's not as if anyone would find it less than credible.

If she really needs to.

The department head would probably give her a _free pass_ for wiping Sheldon off the faculty list. Hell, she might get extra funding and tenure out of it. Once she's served her time and got out of secure facilities. Some of those Orange Is The New Black chicks are pretty hot.

But the beautiful daydream is interrupted by Sheldon. He draws himself up in the doorway, and folds his hands together demurely, looking halfway Munster and halfway Dutch doll in an Evil Empire stormtrooper T-shirt. And when he explains himself, it's with the calm authority of the adjudicator at a prize-fight. “I am here – Leslie – in order to act as mediator and agent of conciliation, between yourself and Penny. In my officially authorised position as Senior Counselling and Negotiations Official – authorised by Penny, Ms Winkle, you needn't throw me that look – I shall bring peace between warring parties, and where there is discord let me bring authority, where there is hatstand feminine hysteria let me bring logic. And most important of all, if you want to know how my sister Missy put it when I called her for advice last night, allow me to say: if the two of you can just stop scratching each other's faces like the little bitches you are, and dragging the rest of us into it, restore your dyfunctional little dynamic, then _maybe we can all get some peace.”_

Leslie = boggled, now. Oh, how boggled. Boggled like nothing's ever boggled her since she mastered algebra in second grade and the math teacher threw her out of the class for correcting him on the correct placement of the exponent and his faulty grasp of significant figures in decimals. Too boggled to be mad with Sheldon: she's too busy being fascinated, in a horrified way. “Sheldon,” she almost whispers. “Sheldon. Let me be sure I've got this straight. Let's establish situational parameters, dudie. You're here in an appointed and approved role as a _relationship counsellor?_ You? Sheldon Cooper?"

“Miss Winkle,” Sheldon replies, courteous – for him, and for him _with Leslie_ – and matter-of-fact, only slightly impatient. “Let me congratulate you on your excellent grasp of the essentials of the matter. Yes. Now, would you like to sit down, and give me an overview of your own feelings about this issue? Leslie: how do you _feel?_ ”

Leslie doesn't faint. There's no frog dissection going on here, no yucky brain matter. But it's a darnclose-run thing.


	4. never trust a female on no scale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheldon Cooper, Relationship Counsellor. THE END TIMES ARE UPON US.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Back Like That by Ghostface Killah.

“And again, a resounding and emphatic _no_ on the boombox question, Sheldon. Delivered with a flick of my favourite bullwhip, and while dangling you upside down over a vat of bubbling twelve molar fuming hydrochloric acid. At least, in my dreams, and in a more just world than this one.”

Leslie is sharing a table in the deserted college restaurant, at a point in the evening where only a few truly dedicated and nerdy post-grads and junior lecturers are still there, to justify keeping the catering staff hanging around and glowering. Even Caltech nerdist undergrads have something close enough to sex and drugs to keep them better occupied, at this time of night. Or at least an online version, or the latest versh of _Red Dead Redemption_. 

Again, sharing a table, they are, Luke Skywalker. In a canteen in a state of tragic desuetude, almost bereft of other staff and students, and with spare empty tables aplenty. I.e., they don't have to. These two like-charged magnetic poles, this matter and anti-matter, this proton and anti-proton – this gentle herbivore and slavering sabre-toothed tiger - are voluntarily inhabiting the same space, or at least damn close to it. They're up pretty damn close and personal, at minimum. And Sheldon is bending over the table, working his way through cookies that Leslie has brought in for him. They're made to his MeeMaw's traditional and secret family recipe, which he has partially disclosed to Leslie. This, in order that Sheldon can bring in the secret spice mix and mystery fruit puree ingredient that complete the delicacy. He's brought it for Leslie, to fold into the dry ingredients, in a borosilicate Pyrex beaker in the lab, and bake over a steady bunsen burner flame in the fume cupboard, finished off with the flame applied to the upside, melting the amber rock sugar to a perfect glaze. Leslie did consider adding just a sprinkle of potassium permanganate. Pretty! Violet! Deadly! But no. She hasn't done with Sheldon yet. He's making himself useful. 

Admittedly, it's baking done in the lab, in a lab-coat, wearing protective goggles and wielding a bunsen burner. But still, it cannot be denied: Leslie Winkle has lowered her dignity and feminist credentials sufficiently to bake cookies. For a guy. For _Sheldon Cooper_ , even. 

But, look at it realistically. If that's the price that she's required to pay, for his assistance in The Project, then hell, it's time to swallow her womanly pride and get busy with the mixed spices, the currants, the rolling pin and the naked flames. 

Which she has done, and taken the exercise god damn seriously too. Half-ass nothing, ace every test, it's Leslie's pride at stake. They are damn good cookies if she does say so herself, and when Sheldon puts his hand into the tupperware to grab another, and takes a bite that demolishes half of it in one go, it's a tribute that's nothing less than well-earned. In fact, going further than that, he actually condescends to concede, “These are pretty close to my Mee-Maw's standard of cookie, Leslie. And my Mee-Maw's cookies are the _nonpareil_ , the _nec plus ultra_ of the cookie universe. Well done.”

Patronage, from Sheldon, still amounts to a compliment, and Leslie knows better than to allow herself a reflexive sneer in response. At the least, not until she's got what she needs out of the toxic twerp. She takes a cookie herself, instead, and watches him visibly cogitate. “Leslie,” he says finally. When he's finished chewing. “I feel myself called upon to remonstrate with you on this issue. Not only have you already promised to abide by my opinion and advice in this affair, but you have also, let me remind you, appended your binding signature to the 'Arch-nemesis On Temporary Hiatus Agreement'. And if, after a great deal of deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that the popular Eighties' brat-pack teen movie 'Say Anything' offers us a fruitful and productive courtship model, then that signature compels you to give the matter serious weight and meditation. Rather than dismissing it as if I'd suggested that you adorn yourself with sequins and nipple tassels, and perform a pole dance outside Penny's place of employment as a means of enticing her back to your errant side.”

Leslie's about to open her mouth and give Sheldon a blast of a broadside about making ridiculous comparisons, and about how her objections to sappy and clichéd methods of courtship don't require straw-man refutations. Then there's a perky little twitch of her pointy little chin, because that image bears consideration. “Is that an option, then?” she asks. “Because I have to say, if the choices are between looking like I model my life and relationship choices on a teenage John Cusack – this is the guy who thought it was a good idea to star in _2012_ , let's not forget – and getting my nips out in public and showing off my moves to the MediHo insurance office support staff, then I am more than completely down with the idea of buying some fairtrade hand-crafted pasties off of Etsy and shaking my thang. Seriously. Is it an option? Are we going with that?”

Sheldon has his hands over his eyes. It's probably a sign that she's gone that crucial step or eight too far, and is liable to trigger him into a complete sensory-overload meltdown if she doesn't back off a little, if she stints on the application of judgement and mercy. “Leslie, we are not going with that. If you have any serious intent of dressing up as a harlot of the night and attempting to win Penny's affections back via lewd gyrations and shameless harlotry, then I herewith withdraw all support and coaching in my role of advisor in this venture. _Arch-nemesis On Temporary Hiatus Agreement_ notwithstanding.”

“You don't think it'd get her going?” Leslie persists. “I can tell you, there's been plenty of nights I've used the old _grease up a pole and rotate like a centrifuge_ move to get Penny eating out of my hand. Or ladyparts. Or _ladyparts_ , Sheldon–” But Sheldon has his hands over his ears, glaring at her, and that's after hurriedly discarding the remains of the last cookie. Oh well. Matter at hand, right? “Anyhow,” she sulks, “it's not a viable option. We don't have the equipment, Sheldon. Where the hell am I supposed to find an actual boom-box, for God's sake? Unless you also happen to have access to a DeLorean, the actual one from _Back To The Future_ , while we're at it with the classically awful teen-flicks. And not only that, but it'd better have the actual powers ascribed to it by Marty McFly. That film is going to have to be a mislabelled documentary, Sheldon. I can't split the atom in an underfunded high school chem lab, _Shellie_ , and I can't woo Penny with smooth moves while carrying a bit of atrociously outmoded tech on my shoulder, without said tech. So we can scratch that option.”

Thank Richard Dawkins, a horrible fate narrowly evaded. Temporarily pleased with herself, Leslie grabs the last cookie – product of her own bony little fingers, after all – and grins at Leonard. Ha, outfoxed, outthunk, the checkmate move. 

But Sheldon's on his phone, tapping something in intently. Then he smiles – that pleased little Eddie Munster smile – and holds the screen out for her to survey. _Boombeatbop.com_ , she reads off the top of the search results. _Vintage electronics_.

“I've already identified four different potential sources of an acceptable substitute for the particular model used by Mr Cusack, in the motion picture you persist in casting unwarranted aspersions upon, Leslie. Not only that, but my currently-winning bid is in the final moments of a live online auction. You were saying?”

Oh, damn it all to hell. But on the other hand, maybe it'll be worth it. She feels her powers of resistance, her will to best Sheldon Cooper in debate just for the hell of it, if for no other reason, begin to wilt and wither and die on the vine. Maybe it'll work. And anyhow, curiosity is taking over from rebellious obstreperousness.

She hasn't asked before. Because, you know, if it ain't broke don't fix it, and if Sheldon's acting less like an arrogant obstreperous mule set on its own way or the highway, then for God's sake keep your head down. Just say a little prayer of thanks to the voodoo manikin of the CalTech Wicca/Atheist Co-op group. But now, she's wondered long enough. She's Leslie Winkle, not Leonard, not Howard. She has a woman's natural rational curiosity, unmediated by the fog of male hormones, the ironically hysterical daze of the rut, the phallic enslavement. She is woman, hear her cogitate. She wants to _know._

“I was saying, what the hell, if you seriously think it's going to get me somewhere then I'll trial it. With certain stipulations and required circumstances. Bear in mind there's no way of blinding the trial, and we can't really test the hypothesis of how well I could have convinced her _without_ a speaker on my shoulder and a ridiculously overwritten speech. Not unless you have a spare Penny lying around, that you've conjured up with your 3-D printer. In which case, hello pervert, and I want dibs. But never mind that,” she continues. Because he's looking pregnantly charged with comments and prevarications, and she's not any more interested in his tirades than usual. Only in provoking them. “Why are you helping me, anyway? I mean to say, what's in it for you? Penny's practically your soul-sister at this point, am I right? If it's her interests you're looking out for, then why would you want her to be getting down with me?'

And the implications of what her mouth's running on with, give Leslie herself pause for a charged moment. Does she think Penny would be better off without her? Is she willing to back off on that basis? (No.) It's a big bad world, and Penny is Bambi. She needs a hunter at her back, slaying the demons. Nothing can convince Leslie otherwise, including hard evidence. Just this once, she's willing to let a little blind faith into her worldview. 

Sheldon, in any case, is waving a dismissive hand at her probing. As is his wont. “Oh, Leslie. My main desire in all of this ridiculously emotional kerfuffle is the pursuit of a quiet life. As you note, I do have a limited and rational fondness for Penny – largely based upon her uncanny ability to source my preferred Scots marmalade, and her powers of persuasion when Leonard is set on regaining possession of the TV remote. Also, my mom likes her and will not fry me chicken on my next trip home, unless I retain Penny in the top five of my best buds. Also Amy Farrah Fowler is convinced she is an angel sent down from heaven, and cannot be disabused of the notion. Whither my girlfriend goest, there I will go, Leslie, and her people will be my people. It saves earache, frankly. 'Follow the totty' is, I believe, the expression. Also I like Penny to be happy. And, loath as I am to admit it, the happiest I have seen her, is during her ill-advised spell spent keeping disreputable company with you. Inexplicable as that might be, to anyone with a lick of sense, taste or judgement.”

Sheldon Lee Cooper, past master of the unintentional back-handed compliment. Leslie doesn't think it's actually meant the way it sounds – this time, anyway. And it's quite a touching explanation, really.

Not that Leslie is touched. Except in the head, to be keeping platonic and strategic company with Sheldon Cooper. “And how does Penny feel about it?” she asks, just to be argumentative. And because it's worrying her. Little bit. “I suppose you concede her right to make her own decisions? You know I can't get her to answer my calls, my messages, and I can't talk to her face to face what with the solid wall of Farrah Fowler, Wolowitz, Koothrapali, Rostenkowski _et al_ getting in my way and in my face whenever I try to. Not that I couldn't take them out, but it might piss Penny off more. Maybe not Bernadette. She's a scrappy little Ewok.” 

Sheldon's gazing vaguely past her left shoulder. She knows that look. It's Sheldon's patented 'someone's talking about their own concerns which do not concern me' look. Leslie snaps her fingers under his nose. And he comes back to himself with some reluctance, giving her a prissy and pissy look. “Yes, yes, Leslie. I concede her right. Perhaps not her capacity, but her right. However, as her fourth closest friend – after Amy, Bernadette and the lady in Idaho whose boyfriend she stole, taught something complex and depraved regarding the female anatomy, and returned with increased capital value and an enhanced skillset – I reserve the right to countermand her orders regarding my own actions. Penny is currently highly ambivalent on the subject of Leslie Wilhelmina Winkle, Leslie. If she was absolutely certain of her wishes or her course of action then I would hesitate to conduct espionage and black ops in the personal sphere. Apart from anything else, I find other people's personal concerns deeply distasteful. But she has expressed sufficient remnants of a personal weakness for you – in between cursing your name, the day you were born and the misguided faculty meeting that resulted in your present appointment, with which sentiments I can only concur – for me to think a determined attempt at a _rapprochement_ desirable. It will give her one last, decisive opportunity to make her mind up one way or the other. And if she fails to do so, then I may be forced to push her off the balcony on which you're serenading her.”

Well. Leslie would push for more – is hungry for more, on whatever softness Penny still has for her, out of her hearing. But he's harping on that balcony thing. Again. “Sheldon,” she says. If it wasn't Leslie, you could say that she _whines_. “I don't wanna play Romeo. I'm not cut out for it. Do I look like a liberal arts type? Am I soft-grunged and soft-brained? Am I hippy-dippy lace and flowers? I only took violin lessons because my lying music teacher swore it'd enhance my spatial-connections capacity and improve mathematical reasoning. I don't look good in a doublet and hose, Sheldon.” 

And is she expecting sympathy? From Sheldon Cooper? It's not forthcoming in any case. Sheldon pushes his hard chair back, squealing on the dusty refectory floor, ready to rise and leave her to her own devices. “Oh, very well, Leslie. If you have a better plan, then I suppose you don't need to take up my valuable time any further in any case. …?”

Leslie slumps down, and her forehead hits her tapioca dish with a splat, milk pudding jetting out in all directions, like cum from a multiply-pierced male member. Defeat. She's barely even cognizant of the concept. And still less the harsh reality.

“No. No, Sheldon. If it's got to be that way, then bring it on. Bring on the balcony. Bring on the boom-box. Just bring it.”

xxx

Turns out, though, that Sheldon has a few vital modifications to make to the template of courtship thoughtfully provided by Johns both Hughes and Cusack. The boombox, turns out, is purely figurative, for all his researches. Leslie only hopes that it was sufficiently entertaining to torture her with the threat of a possible scene-by-scene re-enactment of that excruciating wooing. No, Sheldon considers her violin adequate accompaniment. Or at least, adequate if accompanied by Leonard on cello, Barry Kripke on harmonica and knee-cymbals, and Stuart on clarinet. She's surprised by the addition of this pair. Kripke is, after all, officially removed from Sheldon's Facebookin' friends list. And is an ass, besides. And she hadn't been aware that Sheldon and Stuart were particularly buddy-buddy, either.

“Sowwwww, Leslie,” Kripke greets her on the sidewalk, outside Penny's (and Leonard's, and Sheldon's) apartment. “Lookin' pretty hot what with all the...” He looks her over carefully, squinting. It's too clinical to be a leer, more like he might be actually writing up an itemized report on her ass later on. “The CalTech women's basketball team wegulation tee-shirt,” he concludes. “And the pyjama pants. Leslie, considewing how wittle effort you make to be desiwable and attwactive, it's pwetty amazing that I'd still do you if I had to fight my way through a horde of waging wildebeest. Or listen to Sheldon give a wecture on wave feowy.” 

“Barry, I can't express how deeply you flatter me,” Leslie says, with slow, measured sincerity. “I also can't hit you over the head with my violin. I need it right now for the performance, plus it cost too much to be wasted on your thick head. We'll save it for later, okay?”

Kripke seems pleased by this response. Jubilant, even. But then, this is a pretty positive, warm and welcoming response, probably, by the standards he has to judge of the usual responses he gets. “Way-ters,” he agrees, nodding enthusiastically, clicking his tongue and firing a couple of finger-pistols at her.


End file.
